The trees encroached on the rocky plain until his path wound through a thin margin between the vertical cliffs and the scrub. Mike consulted his map one more time and decided that he had probably reached the convergence of Gary’s lines. He thought about taking a break before turning around, but decided instead to press on. The sky looked to open up a bit and he thought he might be rewarded with a view.
Mike was quickly disappointed. After moving with hands and feet over several large rocks, he found a sign mounted on a twisted fir tree. It showed that “The Ledges” trail headed back downhill here, presumably to rejoin the creek. He hadn’t seen a good view yet, and the thinner trees up ahead promised that his reward must be near. Deliberating for less than a second, he pulled himself over the next rock and made his way along the steep ridge.
With very little hiking experience, Mike was completely charmed by the sight that greeted him a hundred yards later. He made his way around another big boulder, pressed between sharp branches and the cliff face, and saw that the trees pulled back from the wall. Here a small clearing opened up and the trees and sky framed a nice view of the valley below. When he squinted, he thought he could even see where the small creek joined a larger river.
He stayed high against the wall, to maximize the distance he could see over the trees, and found a large rock to lean against. The stone had been warmed by the hot sun. It instantly relaxed his tight back. He propped his head up on his interlaced fingers and enjoyed the serenity.
After only a few minutes of relaxation, Mike’s problems crept back to the front of his head. He took a deep drag of the fresh air and tried to empty his mind, but the thoughts continued to intrude, banishing his solitude. Mike sighed and decided to talk through his problems.
“Guess I have to start over,” he told the clearing. “Lost my savings, my research, and I’m probably going to lose my grandparent’s house. If I’m lucky, I’ll manage to hold on to my freedom.”
He tilted his head back and looked at the flawless blue sky.
“I’ve got my life. That’s more than Gary,” he said. Mike closed his eyes, knowing that he would be greeted with Gary’s terrible visage, but wanting to feel the pain and sorrow of his loss.
His guilt was compounded, and he had just arrived at the point where he could admit why. When Gary had raised his ruined, handless arm, for a brief moment Mike had been glad—glad that the news crew would have solid evidence of activity, and glad that his research had uncovered horrific, incontrovertible manifestations. He tried to forgive himself for his own greed, but his pain was too fresh to be dismissed.
When no more tears would come, Mike leaned back against the warm rock, propped his head in the corner of his elbow, and dozed. He awoke to a cool breeze, deep thirst, and nagging headache. There was plenty of daylight left, but the sun had moved behind the rock face and the shadows were cooling quickly.
Mike slid across the rock and dropped down to the loose rocks below. His feet crunched down and his ankle twisted on the uneven terrain. He rotated his foot and looked down, hoping it wouldn’t swell.
“What’s this?” he asked aloud. He knelt down, feeling a sharp stab in his tender ankle, and peered at the dark lumps between his shoes. Grabbing a twig, he rolled one of the lumps while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the shadow of the rock. The furry lump included a leathery appendage. He brushed it with his stick until the wing of the bat was stretched across the scree. Something about the shape of the dead bat didn’t make sense. He poked another until he figured it out—the bats were missing their heads.
“Ozzy? Did you do this?” he asked under his breath. The corner of his mouth turned up at his slight joke.
Mike tossed aside his stick and picked up the first bat by its tiny hands. He spun the body to see the neck. He poked at the dry wound and wondered why no scavengers had picked up the easy carrion.
Diseased, he thought.
He dropped the bat and wiped his hands on his jeans. His curiosity won out and he stepped back so he could lower his head to examine the bats further. Spinning around the decapitated, desiccated corpses, he counted five animals and got an unexpected clue as to why nothing had carried them off. A breath of cool air flowed out from under the big rock. Mike noticed that the deep shadow continued much farther than he had first thought, and the air emanating from the deep shadow harbored a disgusting, malevolent odor.
Mike pushed back frantically to get away from the smell. It was the stink of death mixed with an unidentifiable stench that made him think of evil, hate, and murder. He couldn’t imagine a crow or raccoon being hungry enough to ignore this smell for a free meal of dead bat.
He backed away even farther, and sat on a low rock that faced the cave. From his new vantage point he noticed that the color of the rocks surrounding the cave entrance didn’t appear as bleached and dry as the rest of the clearing. One of the rocks had been flipped on its back, exposing its bottom—stained dark brown with moisture—to the sun.
Mike stood and considered the possibilities: perhaps a bear had moved the rock, eaten the bats, and then crawled in the cave to die? Perhaps a rabid wolf? Either way, Mike found himself ready to get back to “The Ledges” trail, and back to his car.
He turned away from the bats and the small cave and almost managed to miss the most interesting feature of the clearing. Just two paces further, Mike spotted a footprint in a patch of loose sand. In the lee of a rock, the details of the footprint were unsullied. He counted five toes, spread wide to distribute the considerable weight associated with such a giant imprint.
Mike put his own foot down next to the print. Even with his shoes, the mark in the sand dwarfed Mike’s feet. Balancing carefully, Mike put his other foot directly in front of the first. The length from the print’s naked heel to toes reached past the arch of Mike’s second foot.
He uttered a low, barely audible whistle and squatted next to the enormous footprint. He reached around to the back of his belt and unclipped his cell phone. He pressed the button on the side to activate the camera.
“What the hell?” he asked. The phone’s display was black. None of the buttons had any effect.
Batteries must be dead, he thought.
Mike straightened up, clipped the phone back on his belt and took one last look at the giant footprint before the long hike back to his car.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Crooked Tree - 3141 B.C.
CROOKED TREE WATCHED THE SKINNY MAN washing the animal skins in the shallow pool. The river took a sharp bend just downstream where it squeezed between tall rock walls. This natural dam created some still, but reasonably fresh, shallows where one local family liked to wash the skins of their fresh kills.
The skinny man, Crooked Tree’s prey, stood no more than a hundred paces from where Dr. Mike, the failed paranormal researcher, would eventually splash cold water on his face, thousands of years in the future. Crooked Tree only cared about the future in terms of the next few moments; the ones leading to him culling his sickly man from the pack. Even at this distance, Crooked Tree could smell the man’s disease. It was the worst kind of sickness, passed down between generations and not affecting the person until he was already of breeding age, already passed on to his children. First, Crooked Tree would remove the source, and then he would be free to take out the man’s offspring. He might remove his wife as well, as she had not shown enough instinct to avoid this man’s poisoned seed.